


you are here

by falqons (golden_gardenias)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), discussions of racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 03:09:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12181746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_gardenias/pseuds/falqons
Summary: Sam is tired. Tired of running, of looking over his shoulder. He knows he should be used to it by now, but he also knows that this isn't the kind of thing anyone should have to get used to; the suspicion, the upturned noses, the wary glances, the hesitance. He's so tired.





	you are here

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this poem](http://mvthologicals.tumblr.com/post/119115083147/you-are-in-an-in-between-in-a-world-with-no) and helped along by [these](http://lukemagnus.tumblr.com/post/145452059975/whereisfalcon) [posts](http://lukemagnus.tumblr.com/post/145324086185/clari-clyde-arkynn-fatcr0w-fatcr0w). accompanying art by jo (@[vantablacksteverogers](http://vantablacksteverogers.tumblr.com)) can be found below!
> 
> (warning for brief descriptions of death)

Sam doesn’t know how long he’s been on the Raft. He’d tried counting earlier, but his interrogation has left him disoriented, and that paired with the movement of the water around him isn’t helping his concentration. He thinks about how, if Rhodey or Nick were here, he would make a joke about how he’d much rather be imprisoned in the air -- “we weren’t meant to swim,” he can picture himself saying. “Flying comes much more naturally, right Rhodes?” Nick would snort and shake his head, and Rhodey would smile.

God, he hopes Rhodey’s okay.

He wishes Nick were here. He thinks it’s selfish to wish someone else were imprisoned with him, but he allows himself to imagine the comfort Nick’s presence would bring him: Nick would be practical about their chances but wouldn’t let that squash his hope; Nick wouldn’t speak to him outright but he wouldn’t sugarcoat the reality of Sam’s situation, would ground him with stares that said “I know. I know and I’m trying. I’ll get you out of here. I won’t let them kill you.”

At least, that’s what Sam imagines.

 

* * *

 

He hasn’t spoken to his mother in a week. A week? Has it really been that long?

What was the last thing he said to her? What had they talked about? Something inconsequential, probably, just to check in -- “Yeah, I’m all good here. Nah, he still can’t cook, but he’s trying. If I haven’t called you by Thursday it’s because he’s poisoned me.”

A week without calling her, and stories about them being criminals have probably dominated the news. She’s worn a hole in the living room carpet by now, pacing and twisting her phone cord around herself as she alternates between calling his siblings and calling him. The answering machine at his and Steve’s house must be full by now, so she’s leaving him voicemails on his cellphone. “Baby, I know you’re God-knows-where right now, but just know that I’m praying for you. I don’t know what’s going on, but God’ll take care of you, okay? You just hang on, and God will do the rest.”

Sam hasn’t thought about God in a long time. His mom doesn’t ask if he’s been to church anymore, but he still goes to the Easter service with everyone else; his nephew Marcus has been trying to match his dress shirt with Sam’s for the last couple years. His mother’s seemingly unshakeable faith had frustrated him when he was younger, especially after his father’s death, but now he can see the appeal.

He wishes his father was here.

 

* * *

 

When Steve comes to get them, the knot in Sam’s chest has loosened. Loosened, but not come undone; he doesn’t think he’ll ever breathe freely again. The temporary relief fades as they fly closer to their house in New York, and Sam finds himself working to quash down a flash of white-hot anger at Steve’s sympathetic glances. What possible sympathy could golden-boy Steve have for him? How could he even begin to understand what Sam has been through? Later Sam will be ashamed of himself for the split second of hating his partner, but right now it almost consumes him, and he has to look away from Steve’s earnest face.

The silence presses on his ears, and he can’t take it anymore. “Have you seen Rhodey?” he grits out, working to keep his voice even. It won’t do anyone any good for him to lash out.

Steve starts and gives Sam another look out of the corner of his eye, but Sam keeps his eyes forward. “Not yet. I didn’t think they’d want to see me.”

Sam nods. “What about Nick, have you heard from him?” Where had he been through all of this?

Steve sighs. “Not yet, but he’s probably making his rounds.”

Sure enough, Nick is waiting for them in their living room when they get home; Sam had expected him after noticing Maria and Phil stationed across the street. Nick stands immediately upon seeing Sam’s face, not asking if he’s okay because he already knows the answer. “Jesus,” he whispers.

For some reason this squeezes some feeling back into Sam’s numb insides, and his hands start to shake. Steve grabs one, leading him to their bedroom without looking back at Nick. Sam can feel him watching them impassively, and he’s glad Steve’s closed the door before he breaks down.

 

* * *

 

Nick knocks on their door some time later, long after the sun has set. Sam is distantly aware of the fact that Steve has changed him into some pajamas and laid him on his side, and he smells food. Nothing is burnt, though, so he knows that Steve didn’t have any part in it. “Come in,” he croaks.

The scent of the food -- some kind of stew, he thinks -- wafts over to him as soon as Nick opens the door, and his stomach clenches in response. “Hope this helps,” Nick grunts as he sets a steaming mug down on Sam’s nightstand. “Cornbread’s just about done, you want jelly or butter?”

“Butter,” Steve answers for him, but Nick hasn’t moved from the doorway, waiting for Sam to either confirm or deny.

“Butter’s fine,” he says, even though he thinks he won’t eat any. It all smells great, and he’s starving, but he doesn’t think he can bring himself to take even one bite.

Nick comes back a few minutes later with a dessert plate laden with two pieces of cornbread, one spread with butter and the other with jelly. He sets it down next to the mug and steps back, crossing his arms. “You gotta eat something, Wilson,” he says softly.

Sam nods, pushing himself into a sitting position and taking the tray Steve offers him on autopilot. Nick hands him the mug and a spoon and then gives Steve a pointed look, but Steve isn’t good at subtlety, so he gives an awkward jerk of his shoulders and stands up, gesturing vaguely to the living room and saying, “I gotta, um, call your mom. Be back in a bit.”

Once they’re alone, Nick slides the armchair they keep in the corner closer to the edge of the bed. He’s quiet for a moment, then tries to break the tension with levity. “I worked hard on that stew, so you better eat it. Rogers said it was from your mom’s cookbook.”

Sam nods, stirring the stew around in his mug absently. “No homemade biscuits, though.”

Nick smiles, just a quick one, and Sam holds onto the normalcy of the moment before it gets broken. “Rhodes will be okay. Stark had part of the Tower converted into a special lab for him to recover at, and he’s developed some kind of prosthetics to help him walk. Danvers is with him now.” He’d braced himself for worse, but Nick’s words still stab him in the gut. “And Sam,” he continues, resting his hand lightly on Sam’s wrist, “he wanted me to tell you that none of what happened was your fault.”

The lump Sam has been working to keep down is back in his throat. Guilt crushes him, threatens to consume him, but Nick’s grip is a tether that keeps him from drowning.

They sit in silence for an indeterminable amount of time; the stew has long since cooled in Sam’s lap, the gravy becoming tacky and the cornbread stiff. He can hear Steve pacing in the living room, and he suddenly aches to hear his mother’s voice. “My mom,” he whispers, tears burning in his eyes again. Nick understands, calling “yo, Rogers! Bring that phone in here,” out to Steve.

Steve’s face is blotchy and his eyes are red from crying, but his voice is steady when he hands the phone to Sam with a quick “Here he is” said into the receiver.

“Sam? Oh my god, baby, are you alright? I’ve been looking for you, they wouldn’t tell me _anything_ \--”

He lets her voice and the relief it brings wash over him. She keeps up a continuous stream of tearful praise to Steve for rescuing him and angry threats to Stark and Ross and anyone else who might have had a hand in imprisoning him. She tells him that Nick has kept her updated whenever he found out anything new, both about Sam and about Rhodey, and Sam has never been more grateful for Nick’s friendship in his life.

She wants to come see him, and at the stricken look on his face Nick takes the phone away from him, says “we’ll come to you, he just needs the chance to recover a bit more,” and “yes, Darlene, he’s had a bit of the stew, but I’ll get some more food in him,” and “give my best to Sarah and Gideon, tell them I’m keeping my eye on things.”

The silence after he’s hung up is ringing in Sam’s ears, and he feels compelled to break it. “What’d I tell you about flirting with my mama, man?”

Nick laughs, and Steve smiles, and Sam feels like maybe things will be okay.

 

* * *

 

They go to see Rhodey three days later. Natasha has come to bring Steve to one of her safehouses, pressing a soft kiss to Sam’s cheek and grasping Nick’s hand before she leads him away. Nick’s SUV is state-of-the-art, and Sam can feel the strength of the reinforced metal as he swings the passenger door shut and clicks his seatbelt on.

Nick’s hand is poised over his audio dial, and he looks to Sam. “Any requests?”

Sam smiles. “Play Earth, Wind, and Fire,” he commands. A voice coming from the rearview mirror confirms, and then a moment later their greatest hits album blasts from the speakers. “You gotta hook me up with one of these,” he tells Nick.

“As long as you don’t put any of that new shit on there,” he returns, and Sam settles into their familiar argument. He mostly agrees with Nick about “kids today” and their synthesized racket, but keeps up the pretense of disagreement only so he can watch Nick’s eyebrow twitch in annoyance.

“You know what Steve said to me the other day?” he remembers suddenly. (“The other day” had to have weeks ago by now, but he doesn’t let himself think about that.) “The radio was on while we did the dishes, they had some Michael playing. He turns to me and he says, ‘this is a damn fine beat, Sam. We could really get down to this. Is this the king?’ What the hell am I supposed to say to that?!”

Nick’s sudden burst of laughter jerks the car, and the voice that played their music for them warns him to stay in his lane. When Nick hasn’t calmed down enough to steer without shaking, the car, in a somehow put-upon voice, asks permission to pilot itself. “I got it, I got it,” Nick grumbles, still snorting. “How do you put up with that?” he asks Sam.

“I don’t even know, man. And Sharon recommended _Friends_ to him, so now I gotta sit through that nonsense.”

“Oh, Sam, you don’t know how good you have it,” Nick says with faux bitterness. “Natasha told him to watch  _Full House_. She thinks I don’t know it’s her guilty pleasure, but this eye sees _everything_.”

“You wanna hear a guilty pleasure? Don’t tell anybody this, but I used to **_love_** _7th Heaven_. The preacher and his kids, you remember that one?”

The car phone rings before Nick gets the chance to answer, and Rhodey’s face flashes in the upper left corner of the windshield. “Where are you guys? I thought you said you’d be here by one.”

Nick shakes his head. “You know damn well we were never getting there at one, Rhodes.”

Rhodey’s reply comes easily, and Sam can picture him trying not to smile. “You’re a damn _spy_ , Nick, a _government agent_. How you still running on CP time when you have missions to run?”

“When they’re _my_ missions, they follow _my_ schedule. Who do you think you are, mouthing off to your commanding officer?”

“Yeah, yeah, just tell me you guys will get here soon? I’m going stir-crazy.”

“We’ll be there in twenty minutes, colonel,” Sam assures him.

“Better had. Otherwise I’d have to fly out to meet you fools.”

Rhodey’s so casual about it, just mentioning flight like he hadn’t fallen out of the sky and broken the lower half of his body, like he wouldn’t still be walking if Sam hadn’t dodged that hit, like he hadn’t nearly died because of--

“Sam.” Nick’s firm voice draws him out of his head. He watches a few seconds tick by beneath Rhodey’s face on the windshield, then mutters a quick “sorry” to them.

“Not a problem,” Rhodey says lightly. “That’s a moratorium on you-know-what and the other thing, then.”

“No, we can talk about it,” Sam insists. “We should. I just got a little lost there, I’m fine.”

He can tell by their pauses that they don’t believe him, but they let it slide for now. “Okay. See you guys in bit.”

“See you, Rhodes.”

He and Nick finish the drive in silence.

 

* * *

 

Rhodey is as accommodating as he ever is when they arrive, which both comforts and bothers Sam. He doesn’t let Sam marinate on those thoughts -- that he should be the injured one, that he deserves punishment; he leads them to an alcove in a wheelchair with repulsor engines, so he’s hovering around Sam’s knees as they move and still floating when they sit. “Still get to be in the air,” he says, smiling.

The bright flash of his friend’s teeth crushes Sam, and he can’t hold himself back any longer. “I . . . I know this won’t do any good, and I know it doesn’t really mean anything, but I’m _so sorry_ , Rhodey. I’d trade places with you if I could.”

Rhodey is quiet for a moment before he responds, keeping his voice even. “You think I want you hurt like this, Sam?”  He sighs, maneuvering his chair closer to Sam and reaching out to rest his hand on his shoulder. “I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told Tony, okay? I’ve flown 138 combat missions, alright? Any one of those could’ve been my last, but I still did it. I got in the plane, I put on the suit, and I flew. You accept the same risks with your wings, and you know as well as I do that this is a best-case scenario. I’m not dead, or comatose, or brain damaged. I still get to see my friends and kiss my wife and serve my country. I never blamed you for this, or Vision, or Tony; it just . . . happened. If you need to hear that I forgive you, then I’ll tell you, but just know that you don’t need to be forgiven for _anything_. Do I wish we could’ve been on the same side? Of course, but that’s not gonna change anything for me. We’re good, okay?”

Sam can’t yet speak through the tears steadily falling down his face, so he nods, reaching up to hold Rhodey’s hand. Nick brings him a bottle of water and a tissue box that had been sitting on an end table, and Sam lets his quiet affection reinforce Rhodey’s words; he is not a bad person, he was no more at fault for Rhodey’s injury than he was for Riley’s death, he deserves kindness. “Thank you,” he whispers.

They back off for a bit, giving him the chance to collect himself, before Rhodey addresses him again. “You have anything you wanna share? That shiner, maybe?”

Sam knew this was coming, and he knows he needs to talk about it, but he still balks. Remembering his interrogation brings him back to being a teenager in Harlem, watching white people lock their car doors when they saw him coming, watching them edge away from him on the sidewalk and clutch their purses. A bone-deep weariness suddenly overtakes him, and Sam is tired. Tired of running, of looking over his shoulder. He knows he should be used to it by now, but he also knows that this isn't the kind of thing anyone should have to get used to; the suspicion, the upturned noses, the wary glances, the hesitance. He's so tired.

“I thought I was gonna die,” he says finally. “I thought they would kill me. And it’s not like that’s anything new, you know? And I kept wondering what they would say about me afterward, what they’d tell my mom, if Steve would know the truth. Maybe they would make it look like I hung myself in my cell, or that I rammed my head into the bars.” Maybe they would force a blade into his hands and make him slash his own wrists, maybe they wouldn’t even bother with a cover-up and just let him disappear, fade from memory, become another hashtag that trends for a week before another tragedy takes its place. “I knew that was a possibility when I made the plan, and I told Steve to go with Bucky anyway. Guess I just wasn’t as prepared as I thought.”

“That’s not the kind of thing anyone’s ever really prepared for,” Nick says quietly. “Yeah, you walk around strapped because you know the FBI might send someone to assassinate you, and you stay indoors with the windows closed to avoid snipers, but when they’ve got you surrounded, when you think ‘this is it,’ you’re still scared shitless.”

Rhodey nods in agreement. “And you sign up to protect a country that has never protected you, and you think they’ll respect the uniform or the ranking if they won’t respect _you_ , but even then you don’t matter to them.”

On an impulse, Sam sings out, “They don’t really care about us.” Rhodey and Nick are startled into laughing, and when Nick yells “George Bush doesn’t care about black people!” in an impression of Kanye West, he has to join in. Rhodey holds his hand out in front of him, miming a steering wheel, and raps “cruisin’ down the street in my 6-4,” which puts them in another round of hysterics.

It’s then that Sam remembers something his mother told him about resilience: “As long as you can laugh, baby, you’re still here.”

 

* * *

 

 

  

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it!! be sure to compliment jo on the gifs, they did a PHENOMENAL job.


End file.
